Alone
by ThefadingdaysofMay
Summary: John Watson has a horrible day, only to go back to 221 B to find a woman...by the name of Enola Holmes. Enola must adjust to London-life, solve a murder, and try to please her older brother. Not much Sherlock, except in the beginning and the end. A lot of John and a small dose of Lestrade and Sally. First fiction, so do forgive if it's rubbish! Rated K because I'm paranoid.
1. Chapter 1

The rain was pouring down so hard, John could barely see the signs in front of him. He squinted at the sign, and took the road, only praying he was really walking down Baker Street. Drenched to the skin, now shivering in the cold, he was tired and a little… annoyed. Finally, he reached 221B, and he fumbled with his keys, almost cursing when he dropped them in the puddles on the usually grimy sidewalk.

"John, get up here," he heard the low, masculine voice of his roommate, Sherlock Holmes, shout from upstairs. John sighed, clenching his jaw silently, and walking up the stairs slower than usual just to annoy his friend. As he stood in the doorway to the apartment, he glanced around the room, and noticed a girl sitting in one of the chairs…well, she looked in her late teens. Twenty at the most. Sherlock was staring at her, silently, his deep blue eyes staring her up and down. John forced a polite smile on his face, and stepped into the room, as the girl turned her own strikingly blue eyes to John. She didn't even glance at his outstretched hand, but kept her gaze on his own blue eyes as she simply shook it.

"Dr. Watson…I have heard so much about you," she said. Her voice was low in itself, her face absolutely dead serious as she spoke. The more John looked at her, the more she seemed to have seen too much for her young life.

"I wish I could say the same," he said, sitting on the only remaining chair in the room, and turning to Sherlock. "Can we talk?" he asked quietly. Sherlock kept staring at the girl.

"No," he said, acting like his usual childish behavior. John stood up now.

"Let's talk," he said, making it a command. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood, walking into the kitchen. John flashed an apologetic smile to the girl, and followed Sherlock into the adjoining room.

"What is going on?" he asked Sherlock in a forced whisper. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he spoke, fixing his gaze a little behind John as he impatiently waited for him to continue with his questions. "Who is that woman, and why is she here?" John continued. A pause followed his angry questions, and then Sherlock stared at him with little emotion on his face.

"Are you done?" he asked. John huffed indignantly, but nodded after a moment. "Good," Sherlock said, turning and striding back into the sitting room. "Sit down John…we have a problem." John sat down, and waited for someone to answer his questions. The girl stared at Sherlock as though he was some sort of vermin, and then flashed an apologetic smile to John, which totally changed her face.

"Well, if he won't introduce us, then I will," she said. Flicking a strand of silky, especially dark hair out of her face, she smiled at John. "My name is Enola. Sherlock is going to look after me for a few days." John looked shocked, and then amused.

"He's going to-to look after you?" he actually laughed out the rest. Enola rolled her eyes.

"Well, Mycroft wouldn't, so I'm a little stuck. And, he won't be actually looking after me. He'll just be letting me stay here for a few days." John now looked confused.

"Why? We've never housed clients before?" Now, Enola smiled sweetly, as if John had just said something similar to a two-year old.

"I'll let you two talk this through," she said. "Meanwhile, where's the housekeeper?" she asked, standing. "I have a few questions." Sherlock just pointed down the stairs, and she obliged, walking down the stairs quietly. John moved to Enola's now-vacant chair, and stared at Sherlock.

"Well?" was all he asked. Sherlock sighed, and then sighed again after a pause.

"I have to house her," he said. At John's raised eyebrows, he leaned back in his chair, and looked at anything but John. "It was Mother's wish." John's expression froze on his face, before he swallowed quickly.

"I'm sorry…_Mother_?" he asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Enola is my…well, she's my sister," he finally blurted out, standing and walking away. John just kept staring at his empty chair. Finally, he blinked and returned to the mortal world.

"She's your what?" he asked, standing and rushing down the stairs after Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N Okay, so here goes the second chapter. Almost no Sherlock-Enola interaction, but a lot of John. Enjoy and please review!**

**+) may**

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Mrs. Hudson took a fancy to Enola, giving her biscuits, making sure she had her tea, constantly saying that she wasn't her housekeeper. Enola was always so polite, smiling and accepting whatever she was offered, though she rarely ate. Drinking tea seemed to be a constant activity in her life, and when John came home after a week to discover her sitting in the same position on their couch as how he had left her, he made up his mind on a decision he had been pondering over for the past few days. As he strode into the room, bustling around the kitchen to make a pot of tea, Enola did not move a muscle. Legs thrown carelessly over the couch as if forgotten about, head back against the Union Jack pillow she had moved to the arm of the chair, eyes closed as if praying, she appeared to be sleeping. John sat down in one of the remaining chairs and watched her silently, believing her to be asleep. He almost dropped his saucer when she moved her arm to raise the cup of tea to her lips before returning it to the saucer situated precariously on her lap. John cleared his throat now.

"Enola…" he started, before trailing off. Her eyes opened, revealing the same unusual eyes as Sherlock. She smiled and sat up, curling her feet under her as she turned to face him. She sipped her tea again, waiting for John to continue. John stared at the creamy tea in front of him, thinking of a way to phrase his question. "Are you familiar with the practice of medicine?" Enola raised a single eyebrow, before shrugging nonchalantly and standing up to re-fill her cup.

"Not really, why?" she asked. Then a chuckle escaped her and she turned back to John, head cocked to the side slightly in an unconsciously flirtatious way. "Wait a moment," she said. "You want me to come work with you at your practice?" John just watched her, desperately trying to read her facial expressions, and failing miserably. She smiled sweetly at him, something which annoyed him greatly, and returned to sit on the couch, sprawling yet again over the cushions. "My darling John," she began, pausing to sip her tea. "I appreciate the offer incredibly, but I must refuse…I am sorry to say the way of a doctor does not interest me, even if its sole reason is for entertainment." She sighed, leaning back in her seat and watching John carefully, reading him better than he her.

"The Holmes family has been graced with many things, John, but social skills and sympathy for others is not to be found on the list." John stared at the woman, before shaking his head quickly.

"How old did you say you were?" he asked. She smirked, standing and walked over to the window.

"I didn't," she said calmly, before picking up Sherlock's violin rather roughly. John raised an eyebrow, briefly considering warning her about the penalties for touching Sherlock Holmes' private possessions, but he stopped when she lifted it under her chin and drew the bow to form the lowest, most richly played chord John could have ever heard. She then proceeded to leap her way up the scales, before breaking out with Beethoven. John sighed, standing and walking into his room, knowing the conversation was over. He stepped into the shower, listening as the music switched from Beethoven to Mozart to something John had never heard before, neither did he recognize. As he towel-dried his hair, throwing on clothes, he listened to the melody, struggling to remember a composer's name. Lost in his own thoughts, he did not notice the music stop abruptly, followed by running footsteps before a crash, a curse, and the banging of something against the wall.

"Who wrote that last one?" John asked as he stepped into the sitting room again, suppressing a yawn. His voice trailed off as he saw Sherlock in the doorway, glowering at one very innocent-looking Enola. His eyes switched between the two of them, before Sherlock turned to John.

"Who wrote the last what?" he asked calmly, his voice even lower than usual. John saw the warning look from Enola and shrugged carefully, sitting down and grabbing the first book he laid eyes on.

"Books," he said, waving it slightly in Sherlock's direction. He kept that cold look on his face as he glanced around the room, and he noticed everything. He sighed and turned to Enola; yet, as he opened his mouth to speak, she interrupted him.

"Yes, I know, I did poorly with the cover-up this time…though, honestly, I wasn't bothered. I played your truly tuneless violin, before I ran to jump back on the couch. Really, Sherlock, you do need a good tune!" Sherlock glared at her, mouth still open, most likely to exclaim his finely accurate deductions. Something which sounded dangerously like a growl died down in his throat and he turned to make a theatrical exit of striding to his bedroom when his sister's voice interrupted him again.

"Also, you shouldn't bother with these silly little cases you solve for the Yard. They're an absolute wastes of time." Sherlock froze, back facing them, and John froze, cup halfway to his mouth. Enola smiled at the way she had ruined his exit, and picked up her book, opening to the bookmarked page before concluding with "It's obvious the daughter did it." John blinked once and Sherlock continued down the hall silently, slamming the door of his bedroom shut. Enola simply smirked as she lifted the book to hide her face.

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**A/N cont... so what did you think? I noticed I have one single review (a big thank you to The February Rose..you are so totally my bff!), but this story has been viewed. I'd love to hear what you think, so PLEASE REVIEW!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Okay, so here's the third chapter...again, no Sherlock, a lot of John, Enola, and Lestrade and a little bit of Sally who is one of my favourite characters...she's just so hilarious! Anyway, leave a review and another huge thank-you to The February Rose...I absolutely adore you to bits!=) I think you'll find the last part of this story isn't quite as humourous as the last part.**

**+)may**

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Slowly, people began to realize the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes had a younger sister who was as glamorous, intelligent, and proud as her brother was. First, it was a DI Lestrade, who stopped by 221B to practically beg Sherlock to come investigate a case…he refused. But, the DI was in for a surprise when a young, yet mature woman offered her assistance instead. Soon, he found himself leading John and this Enola Holmes to the crime scene, lifting the yellow crime tape like a gentleman for the woman who claimed to be related to Sherlock. He didn't see how: yes, she was proud by the way she held herself, yes she was intelligent by her looks and the way she spoke and acted, but how could someone who managed to _kindly_ deduce his entire life story before his eyes possibly be related to the blunt consulting detective? Yes, this flirtatious young woman who winked at _Andersen, _of all people, as she passed him to see the body, could not _possibly_ be related to him. Yet, as John quietly told him what little he knew as Enola stood over the body of the girl, her currently green eyes sweeping over the position of the body, finding factors and rallying them up in her head, before crossing them off as she discovered more evidence, Lestrade finally understood. She may be a whole lot nicer, sociable, and prettier than the man, but she was definitely related to him as she stood and began relaying the way the woman had died.

"The angle of the body suggests she was familiar with her killer, at least enough to turn away from him/her for the smallest amount of time, allowing her killer a few precious moments to strike…and strike he did. One heavy push of both hands over her trapezius muscles in the direction of the brick wall," here she stepped cautiously around the body in her leopard stilettos to point to the wall. "Her forehead and right temple hit first, although she tried to brace herself with her hands. By now, she was dazed from the heavy blow, which was when the killer pulled a previously-concealed weapon, a knife, probably some sort of fisherman's knife, and proceeded to stab her three times, twice to her chest cavity, both being blocked by her sternum, before he aimed a little lower, most likely grazing her seventh or eighth vertebra, which is, most likely, cause of death." Here, Enola turned back to the body, obviously not finished re-stating her deductions and conclusions. "The poor darling must have bled to death…but he waited for her. Once she had died, he took her wallet to make it look like a robbery-gone-wrong. But he was frantic; hence the watch and rings which still decorate her hands." She touched the girl's coat.

"Dry…however, most areas in London are still humid and wet from the rain last week, which means she has not been out recently. Band around the finger quite loudly suggests she's married, yet something about it tells me otherwise. Too cheap, not well cared for in the least, rarely worn, tells me she is indeed _not_ a married woman, but wishes to portray one so as to stop the advances of people…or a particular someone. Someone she is afraid of perhaps? Her attire suggest she is in the business field, clothes a good brand, all high up the chain, yet the shoes are extremely uncomfortable, and obviously caused her discomfort from the red lines surrounding her toes…she had not expected to walk a long way, so she most likely is in an office building, around here. She does not carry a briefcase, ruling out accounting and law, yet she is still highly paid. There is a slight oil smudge on her heels, suggesting she has been in the employee closets of the Tube somewhat recently. Also, the slight ink smudge from her hand suggests she is a lefty, she writes often, prefers a purple pen, and takes notes as part of her job." Enola stood, returning to Lestrade and John.

"Overall, I'd say she is a business inspector for transportation, most likely at one of the surrounding buildings. This poor darling was lured here by her killer, and he murdered her." Lestrade now raised his eyebrows, scribbling in his pad.

"_He _murdered her?" he asked. Enola nodded, obviously biting back the usual Sherlock response of "isn't it obvious?" and instead proceeded to explain.

"Due to the force of the push, the angle of the bruises on the back, and the depth of the knife wound, I would say a man around the height of six two or three, well built." She smiled and turned to John. "Now, I'm sorry if I seem cold, but my feet really are aching me, so if we could go back to the flat at the latest convenience, I would be greatly relieved." John nodded.

"Oh, right, of course!" he said, still trying to shake himself of the fact that this woman had gently explained everything anyone could possibly need to know to find the killer without pointing out the obvious…who did it. As John rushed over to stop a cab, Lestrade stopped her.

"Thank you, Miss Holmes," he said. She smiled and turned to go, before turning back to him again.

"Di Lestrade?" Lestrade turned back from the crime scene to face her. Enola smiled sadly. "I am so sorry about your divorce…if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know." Lestrade looked shocked, but nodded, before rushing off to give orders to Andersen. Enola walked over to the second layer of yellow tape, moving to duck under it when a woman appeared out of nowhere. Curly black hair frizzed out around black skin to soften the hard looks of the Sergeant. Enola smiled knowingly at her for a moment.

"So…you're the freak's sister?" the woman asked. Enola raised an eyebrow at the nickname, but said nothing. Finally, she spoke.

"Oh, I am sorry, Sergeant for flirting with your male companion, Mr. Andersen. I did not realize you were having an affair," Enola said. The woman stared at the way this girl spoke and just as Enola ducked under the tape to leave, the woman jutted out her hand. Enola shook it calmly.

"Sergeant Sally Donovan," she said.

"Enola Holmes," the girl replied. Sally nodded, a small smile almost reaching her face.

"Well, Enola, you may be the first normal Holmes I've met yet," she said. Enola chuckled lightly, before walking down the street a little bit. She slowed when she heard Sally shout out, "Are there any more of you then?" She turned back to Sally, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Now, where would be the fun in that?" she asked, before jogging in her heels to catch up with John, who was yet to hail a cab. She stretched out her hand and a cab pulled to the curb. She opened the door for John and he just shook his head at her in amazement.

"You know, you will never cease to amaze me?" he said as they sped down the streets of London towards the flat. Enola turned in her seat to face him, eyebrows raised.

"Really and why is that?" she asked. John shrugged.

"The difference between you and Sherlock…it's remarkable, really," he said with a shake of his head. Enola chuckled with him after a moment.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" John watched her face, as her perfectly shaped lips revealed white teeth, with the front two slightly crooked. It was cute, making her look even younger than she probably was. He leaned forward and she watched him curiously. "What is your story?" he asked. Enola's curiously teasing look fell to a blank expression, one similar to Sherlock's and she shrugged, turning back to look out the window as the lights and shops flew by.

"I was born nearly thirty years after Mycroft, and twenty after Sherlock," she started after a long pause. John leaned back in his seat, watching the girl's expression. She swallowed. "If you know how old Sherlock is, then you will know that I am sixteen this coming Valentines Day. I was an accident, and an unwanted one at that. My father was away on business for all of my mother's pregnancy and most of my childhood. Sherlock was away at university, smoking heroine and marijuana and God knows what else…he never liked me." Here she snorted and her eyes flicked to John's before returning to the window. "Not that he likes anyone, really. My mother became caught up in her own life soon after I was born, and left me in the care of nannies and tutors. Mycroft had just started to establish a government position by this time, and his control was gaining by the day. He was really the only one to finally step in and take responsibility for me. He raised me, has a full-on staff to take care of me in a small seaside house in Maldon and I was raised there. Sherlock has not seen me since he stormed out on that one Christmas Eve party when I was eight; drunk, most likely high, all that nonsense. The only reason I am even here is because Mother wanted me to socialize with people every once in a while and occasionally sends me to London. This time, Mycroft could not look after me, so Sherlock was forced to do his brotherly duties." She sighed as the cab pulled up to 221 B. John paid and they made their way up the stairs slowly.

She dumped her coat on a chair and flopped on the sofa, grabbing Sherlock's violin and drawing out a note. Slowly, the same melody John had heard previously washed over him and he waited until she had finished.

"Now that you understand everything and know my story, I believe we have a better understanding of each other," she said after a while. John nodded slowly and turned to go into his room, but he froze at the door.

"I am sorry, Enola," he said. "I am truly, truly sorry." Enola smiled sadly, and a sad tune echoed throughout the sitting room as John shut his door softly.

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**A/N cont... Review please! Sorry if there are a few mistakes...I could never be bothered with stuff like that;)  
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	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, so here's the last chapter. I just wanted to say a great many thanks to The February Rose and MorbidbyDefault for sticking with me through this and reviewing faithfully. I adore the two of you. Thanks! Anyway, I may one day do a sequel...I guess I'll see where it all goes. Enjoy!**

**+) May**

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The case was solved within a week. After searching through the names of employees throughout the surrounding work buildings, Lestrade and his team found a connection between the murdered woman and a fellow worker. He had been reported for "stalking" her from several of her friends and co-workers and he confessed to everything, describing it all exactly the way Enola had put it. Lestrade stopped by to take her for a celebratory drink down at the pub, but she had to confess her age to him, to which he was shocked. Sherlock sat on the couch, rolling his eyes as Lestrade muttered through an apology. Enola laughed with him.

"Oh, don't be sorry…I don't like to tell people my age. It makes them think I'm still a child, which honestly, I am, but that's not the point." She winked at him and he blushed. He turned to go, but she grabbed her coat and said she would absolutely love an orange squash instead.

Later, when she returned, John was nowhere to be found and Sherlock sat alone on the couch. She slipped out of her coat and let it drape over a chair before she moved to sit on a chair.

'When are you leaving?" asked Sherlock. She glanced at him sharply, before exhaling loudly.

"I was thinking tonight sometime," she said. Sherlock didn't say anything. Enola stood up and walked over to him. "I do wish you would treat me as a part of your family," she said. The rain was starting to pour again outside, but nothing could distract her when Sherlock jumped off the couch, and started yelling at her.

"How on earth could I possibly think of you as family?" he spit out the last word. "Come on, Enola, everyone knows you were the affair child." Enola could faintly hear John coming out from his room to see what all the commotion was about, but she didn't care. Her face was getting red as she realized what he said was true. "You weren't planned for, neither were you wanted!" continued Sherlock. "Why do you think things have changed?" he asked. John was shocked at what Sherlock had just said, and Sherlock turned and grabbed his violin, beginning to play roughly. Enola twirled, grabbing her coat, and rushing down the stair, only stopping to grab her scarf. The violin music hesitated, before continuing stubbornly. John swore under his breath, and rushed out after Enola. He found her on the doorstep, staring out into the rain which poured down quite heavily now.

"I'm sorry for what he said," he said after a moment of silence. "He didn't mean it." Enola kept her eyes forward as she spoke.

"We both know he did," she said. Then she gave a hard laugh. "But he's right, really." There was another silence. "Do you know why I was named Enola, John?" she asked, turning to face John now. He shrugged…it really was quite a strange name, really. Her face was serious as she spoke. "It's an anagram," she said softly. At his confused look, she continued, barely above a whisper.

"…for alone." It took John a few moments for her words to sink in, but they did finally. She smiled, and kissed him softly on the cheek. "Until we meet again, my darling Watson," she said, before turning up her coat collar to the wind and hurrying off the steps. John stared at the rain for a moment, before looking up at the window to just see Sherlock's face disappear. Then he smiled at the rain and shook his head again, before going inside.

**Finis**


	5. Author's Note

**This is just a little let-you-know that I****'ve posted the first two chapters of my sequel (called "Watson Sleeps"). This is a continuation of Enola's life which takes place directly after Alone...I'd love if you'd all read it and let me know what you think! Thanks! PM if you've got any questions at all, okay?  
**

**Love you all bunches!**

**+) May**


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